Silent Requiem

The moment the bell rang, Nick was already on his feet, shoving his notebook into his bag with little care for the neat stacks of papers others were meticulously organizing. He didn't linger—not for idle chatter, not for the professor's parting words. Every second wasted here was a second stolen from something that actually mattered.

The halls of Hains were a polished maze, students moving like clockwork gears, each with their own ambitions, their own little calculations for success. Nick weaved through them like a ghost, his boots thudding against marble as he made his way to the practice rooms. R01. The place where, for once, numbers and theories didn't dictate a damn thing--only sound, rhythm, and whatever energy they could wring out of their instruments.

He was late. Not by much, but enough to piss off Lily. And Lily--sweet as she was offstage--was a fucking storm when it came to music. He could already hear the rapid-fire assault of her drumming bleeding through the heavy door before he even reached it. A relentless, almost militaristic rhythm, tight and demanding.

Shit. He pulled out his pocket watch as he turned the last corner. He was ten minutes late. Not disastrous, but not ideal either. Lily was probably already going at it, warming up on the drums, locked in her own world. She hated when he was late.

Reaching the door, Nick shoved it open without ceremony. Sure enough, the first thing that hit him was the deep, resounding boom of the bass drum, followed by the crisp snap of snare hits. Lily was seated behind her drum kit, sticks twirling in her fingers between beats, eyes closed, completely absorbed in the rhythm.

Nick tossed his bag onto a chair and ran a hand through his hair. "Jesus, you trying to kill the kit before the gig?"

She barely flinched at his entrance, only glancing up when she hit a natural pause. "About time, asshole," she said, breathless from playing.

Nick exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair as he dropped his bag onto a chair. "Yeah, yeah. Economics ran over. You know how it is."

Lily snorted, already resuming her warm-up. "No, I don't know how it is, because I'm not the one sitting through that." Her lips curled up. "You, on the other hand? Still choosing to suffer." She smirked, but her focus stayed on her kit.

Nick ignored the jab and moved towards his guitar case. He popped the latches, pulling out his instrument with the kind of familiarity that made it feel like an extension of his own body. The weight settled against him as he slung the strap over his shoulder, fingers already ghosting over the strings.

Then it hit him.

"Do we even have a damn vocalist yet?" He had thought about it during class. The Watchtower gig was looming, and they couldn't afford to step on that stage without a frontman—or frontwoman.

Lily paused, drumstick tapping idly against her knee. There was a flicker of something in her expression, something between amusement and intrigue. "Oh, we got someone," she said.

Nick narrowed his eyes. "Who?"

She just grinned. "You'll see."

That did not sit right with him.

***

J adjusted the strap of his bag and exhaled slowly, the cool evening air biting at his skin. The sky was a deep, murky grey, not quite night but already swallowing the last dregs of daylight.

He had no time to linger.

J had already been halfway out of his seat before it finished its last shrill note. His notebook--mostly blank save for a few scribbles that could barely pass as notes--was shoved into his bag with a lazy flick of his wrist. Around him, students trickled out, some chatting, others dragging their feet as if the weight of the day had doubled in the last five minutes.

J moved differently.

Efficient. Quiet. Purposeful.

He slung his bag over his shoulder and walked into the corridor.

The halls of Hains Institute smelled of dust, ink, and the faintest trace of damp wood, as if the building itself had been soaked in centuries of rain and candle smoke. The old gas lamps along the corridor flickered with an unsteady glow, casting long shadows against the faded wallpaper—once grand, now peeling at the edges like forgotten parchment. The chatter of students blurred into an indistinct hum, voices mixing with the distant clatter of typewriters from the administration office.

J walked past rows of lockers with brass keyholes, past bulletin boards cluttered with yellowing notices and ink-smudged timetables. The wooden floor beneath him creaked in places, the kind of sound that made the air feel heavier, like something old and unseen was still listening.

Outside, the air carried the scent of coal smoke and the lingering bite of last night's rain. The cobbled streets were slick, reflecting the dim gaslights above in fractured, watery patterns. Horse-drawn carriages rattled past, their wheels cutting through the thin fog that curled between the buildings. A tram rumbled somewhere in the distance, its bell cutting through the murmurs of the city.

He had a meeting.

Not just any meeting. The meeting.

The one that had been circling his mind all day, humming beneath the surface of every dull lecture and mind-numbing discussion. His thoughts had slipped to it between the droning of the professor's voice and the scratch of chalk against the board. The person he was supposed to meet today--important. Hard to trace and a Keeper. It was difficult to put a person here, even for Vermis, with the excessive attention Hains had.

But it wasn't impossible. He walked towards the path surrounded by tall trees. 

"In the middle of semester, a new face? That's interesting." He heard a heavy voice, which stopped him. 

Suppressing the urge to sigh, he tapped his finger on the outline of his pocket watch. An annoyance. But one he had to play along with.

The voice belonged to a man built like a wall--broad, deliberate in his stance, a presence that commanded attention without needing to demand it. His uniform was crisp, his posture effortless. Not a fool, not just another arrogant son of wealth. There was weight behind his words, an intent that wasn't just idle curiosity.

J turned, slow and measured, his expression untouched.

The man's gaze didn't waver, studying him, cataloging him.

J had seen this before. The kind that prodded, tested, waited to see what surfaced when pressed. Damn them. He thought. The way he stood--relaxed but not careless--spoke volumes. This wasn't a man who wasted movement.

A fighter. Maybe worse.

J barely shifted his weight, the grip on his bag steady. The air between them stretched, just long enough to matter.

"Middle of the semester," J echoed, voice dry. "And this is what's interesting to you?" A flicker of something unreadable passed through his gaze before he shrugged. "Bit dull, isn't it?"

His tone was light, just the right amount of dismissive. Not a challenge, not an invitation, just an inconvenience.

One he wasn't in the mood for.

The man in front of him smiled, in a way that was almost chilling. 

"My name is Graves." He said.

***

Graves

He had watched the man from his cabin as he moved toward the forest--a place forbidden at this hour, a sanctuary for only those who understood the rules or had the audacity to break them. The man didn't appear particularly interested in the idea of following the rules. In fact, he seemed to disregard them entirely. There was something about his gait, the way he walked, that drew attention-- measured, swift, confident, like a predator tracking a prey that hadn't yet realized it was being hunted. Or maybe he was just a mouse, with a talent in audacious confidence.

It was the way he moved then--a wiry frame, not bulky but strong in the way someone who'd fought on the backstreets could be. A sharpness in his every step. This was a man who wasn't unfamiliar with danger, someone who carried his own weight in a world that had no use for softness. His attire, too, spoke volumes--black as if he wanted to disappear into the night, to blend in, and yet there was no denying the edge to him. His boots, worn from use, told stories of miles covered on rough terrain, while his fingerless gloves, torn at the seams, were far from ornamental. No, they were tools, built for function, not show.

There was a certain charm in the man, too, a gravity in his presence, like a force pulling you toward him whether you wanted to be drawn in or not. Something in his eyes, that flicker of something hidden deep inside--an intensity that simmered just below the surface, restrained but not weak. It was the kind of allure that could get someone killed or could raise them to something dangerous, something untouchable.

He wasn't a man who would be easily ignored, not by Graves. That was why he followed him.

And yet, instead of confronting him outright, he chose to approach from behind, his steps slow, deliberate. No words called out, no demands or orders--there was no need. He hadn't needed to announce his presence. The man would know soon enough that he was being followed.

But he didn't receive anything. 

Am I wrong? But Raymond did something similar. There's no way Oswell has allowed someone in Hains at this time of the year. What is he planning? Graves had thought that before asking the man about his reasons to be here. 

But things suddenly turned interesting when he listened to him. Not his words. No-no-no, but the silence in between. It was so....perfect. Like the time it takes for his favourite dessert to heat, exactly right. The man before him had something to hide in that forest. 

As the distance closed between them, he watched his eyes, still and placid, in a situation where most would find excuses, the way his shoulders held tension, how his steps had the quiet rhythm of someone trying to avoid attention but betraying himself all the same. He could suddenly feel the pull of the forest ahead, his mind wanting to venture as well to the place that existed just beyond the rules of this institution--where danger was bound, and where, it seemed, this man was headed.

Curious, he thought. Very curious.

The space between them narrowed further, and with it, a slight smile crept onto his lips. He was close enough now, too close for the man to act without being seen. The words slid from him with a calm ease, like a well-placed weapon that didn't need to strike to be deadly.

"My name is Graves." He said.